


Oublie pas mon nom.

by dame5



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Chelsea FC, Companionship, Friendship, M/M, Paris Saint-Germain F.C., Post-Divorce, rivals to friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 10:08:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13499742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dame5/pseuds/dame5
Summary: At twenty-seven years of age, he’s not exactly a rookie anymore. He’s traveled many times before. With Benfica. Chelsea. With the Brazilian National Team for friendlies, FIFA World Cup qualifiers and everything in between. He figures he should be used to the lulls between matches by now. But nothing hits him hard like boredom or ennui, as it’s called in French.OrHow David Luiz becomes best friends with Edi Cavani.





	1. Preface

[Naples, October 2012]

While driving to the airport to drop off his wife and son, Edinson’s fingers pulse over the controls of the radio, skipping through stations. He pulls his lips in and exhales sharply through his nose, irritated that he's unable to find anything to his liking to lighten the mood. The weather doesn’t help. It hasn’t stopped raining all day.

He and his wife had been fighting for months on end, and like the fools they were, they decided to see if having another child would help them recapture the harmony and affection they’ve felt for one another as childhood friends. She’s four months pregnant, and after talking things over, they’ve agreed it’s best for her to give birth in Uruguay where she’d be amongst close family and away from the commotion.

As he merges into the highway, he hears what is unmistakably the voice of openly gay sports talk show host, Alessandro Cecchi Paone humming through the speakers.

“For the Juventus-Napoli match? There will be at least two gay players on the pitch…but I’m referring in general to the potential lineup, not just the players.”

Edinson steals a glance at his wife, catching a nap beside him and he lowers the volume. He grasps the wheel firmly and strains his hearing to listen.

“On the pitch and the bench?”

“Absolutely. Gays are ubiquitous. Statistically, one in ten men are gay. We are in all fields of life, so the pitch is no exception.” Alessandro clears his throat briefly before adding, “They’re also the best players, not because they possess more…how do I put it? To stay _hidden_ takes a great deal of work. It creates a psychological and physical imprint which takes a toll on the player. It’s a price he pays, but he becomes more resilient than others.”

Edinson bites his lower lip in response to a pang of discomfort, and zones out briefly to focus his attention to the traffic ahead of him.

 _Fuck_. He mutters softly to himself, his eyes noting the time stamp.

He fidgets nervously. Despite the uneasiness, a part of him wants to continue listening.

“Marchisio? He’s already exposed himself by stating he favors gay marriage. I think it’s about time to break through and change the mentality surrounding the sport. So for the Juve-Napoli match, I won’t call out the man although from the looks of it, he is ambiguous.”

His wife grasps his forearm, and he jolts.

“Are you okay?” She asks, her voice slightly raspy with sleep.

“We in Naples,” Alessandro stresses, “We in Naples, I think we can win by technical skill. Apart from Cavannaro and Cavani, I think Hamsik—”

Edinson changes the station. The news will do for now.

“I’m fine.” He answers in cool detachment.

He feels her stare stabbing through him.

“Just worried about heavy traffic, that’s all.”

He leans to the side and kisses the crown of her head while she searches for his hand to clasp.

She doesn’t know it yet, but he’d ask for a divorce in four months’ time. He’d take a few lovers while working out the heartbreak and tasting the freedom to be himself. He’d leave SSC Napoli after failing to renegotiate his salary, and join French football giants, Paris Saint-Germain.

He doesn’t know it yet, but in Paris, he’d fall in love. Like he never had before.


	2. Ennui

Setting foot to Camp des Lodges and Le Parc des Princes, David knew that this club would be one to spoil him to a degree that no other club ever has. If he looked around, or gestured with his head in a manner that appeared as if he was looking for something, an attendant would offer to assist him with whatever he needed. He didn’t even have to open his mouth, and someone would run to his side. He felt as if he was being treated like _royalty_.

 _Like a prince._ He thinks.

All the excessive fussing and attention is a little nauseating at first, and Thiago tells him he will eventually get used to it. The prankster in him wants to fuck around with the staff, though knows he shouldn’t laugh at or abuse of their services making a mockery of it. It’s not the best way to make a first impression to the club anyway.

But David doesn’t complain when he finds out he doesn’t have to share a room at the Fairmont hotel in Beijing when they’re set to compete against _En_ _Avant_ _de_ _Guingamp_ for _Le_ _Troph_ _ée_ _des_ _Champions_. It’s one of the benefits of playing for a club that is loaded with money.

Since he’s come on board with Paris Saint-Germain, he hasn’t had enough time or chances to talk to his teammates beyond a superficial level. He knows Thiago well—like the creases in the palms of his hands—and he helps him blend in almost right away making him a part of his clique. Zlatan is cool with him, though he keeps himself a bit detached and doesn’t treat him with the same level of warmth as he does with Thiago.

“He’s a _really_ good guy. We’re so fortunate to have him.” Thiago tells David. “You have to give him some time to warm up. I promise you’ll come to love Ibra like no other by the time this season ends.”

Salvatore, who insists being called _Toto_ , wasn’t such a menacing grizzly bear as he looked. He and Marco clicked right away, and he was happy to have found someone who shared his playful outlook on just about everything. Then there was Serge, who was on loan from Toulouse. The guy spoke his mind, and was cool as _fuck_. He likes people like that. Even the offensive remarks rolled off his shoulders. He’d rather be around a hundred Serges than someone elusive and laconic like Edinson, or _Edi_ as they all called him. He didn’t know what the deal was with him for being so standoffish. _But_. At least Edi wasn’t an asshole. Then there were the _Argentinians_. Javier, whom some called _Flaco_ and Pocho were two sides of the Argentinian coin. Flaco was mellow and down to earth. A humble guy. Meanwhile Pocho was quite the opposite. A boisterous attention seeker with a snarky sense of humor. He liked pressing buttons and got off watching others react. Just his type of guy.

 _This squad’s dope._ David guesses.

On the plane, he gets more than enough time to ease in as a teammate with the others. He chats with Blaise while waiting to use the restroom. He plays cards with Marco and Pocho. He doses off by Thiago when the weariness from traveling hits him hard. Traveler’s fatigue is a different kind of exhaustion that he can’t seem to get used to. He’s restless by nature, and to be in a small, enclosed space without much to do is maddening.

He wakes up when everything is dark except a set of overhead lights. He hears some of his teammates talking in hushed voices and he looks around to see someone he can talk to for a little while. Just to escape the boredom. He scans the space to see who’s close by and not sleeping, and he catches a pair of hands flipping through pictures on the phone. He hoists himself up to see who it is, but all he sees is Flaco in blissful sleep. He removes the traveler’s neck pillow, carelessly tossing it aside and steps into the narrow passage to stretch himself out. It’s only then that he sees the mystery man is none other than Edi. The guy that he had barely exchanged two words with since he’s joined. He rolls his eyes when he realizes that he and Edi probably talked more when they played for opposing teams than as _teammates_.

David had played in a number of matches with both of them in opposing teams. He knew of him, but didn’t have any one memory that stood out. If anything, his first salient encounter with him wasn’t the most pleasant.

_April 2, 2014._

He played for Chelsea then. They were set to play against PSG for the UEFA Champions League. And Chelsea was losing. _Miserably_. He struggled to mark Ibra, who ploughed through the pitch like a tank and humiliated the defense, ridding himself of them like they were flies. Flaco and Edi, what they lacked in brute strength they made up for in agility. When your team is losing that bad, an urgency sets in your gut, and sometimes you do things you normally wouldn’t do. The first mess up came from Gary Cahill, who fowled Edi harshly. He sent the lanky, skinny striker crashing down, and it was ugly. He could still hear the sound of flesh against flesh, and he could still feel the jolt of pain that pulsed through him when he saw Edi hit the ground with all of his weight. When Edi got back up, he was stewing with anger, and demanded a penalty. Chelsea was already losing, and David could not bear that the PSG striker would ask to be given a penalty, driving his team into a greater disadvantage. Edi got back up so quickly, it couldn’t have been a _dirty_ tackle, even though he knew it was, and a penalty should have been awarded. He felt a flash of anger seize him at that moment, and he remembered exhaling with relief, celebrating with Gary with a clasp of the hand when Edi’s plea was ignored by the referee. This minor incident is what set the stage when Edi fell again, and didn’t get up. The match continued, uninterrupted, and David, in his anger wanted Edi to pick himself up and stop acting like he got hurt. He felt no remorse stepping on him. And boy, did that piss the guy off.

…

He felt Edi’s hand swat against his shin.

“Hijo de puta, ¿ _estas ciego_?” [Spanish | Son of a whore, _are you blind_?]

He doesn’t know what is it with footballers making a habit of calling other’s mothers whores. He was already pissed off from before, but now he’s even angrier that he’s pulling his mother into this mess.

“ _Caralho_ , irmão. Basta de bobagens. Levante-se!” [Portuguese | _Fuck_ , bro. Enough with this bullshit. Get up!]

And Edi is up in a flash, and he charges at him head first. Like a bull. He doesn’t even have time to respond because now PSG’s manager has stepped in between and Edi is yanked away.

“It’s okay David. It’s okay. Calm down.” Laurent assures him placing his hand beneath his neck.

Both of them hear Edi calling out.

“Payaso de mierda _. Vete p’al carajo_.” [Spanish | Piece of shit clown. _Go fuck yourself_.]

“Oh I’m calm. But your boy there isn’t.” David responds curtly.

Laurent just looks at him with neither reproach or amusement before he removes his hand from his chest. David still feels the sting of Edi’s head-butt against his chest, and the outline of Laurent’s hand on his neck as a gust of cool English wind blows through him.

Not much later, Thiago runs up to him. He’s wearing that concussion mask, and he tries not to laugh as the image of Thiago as the Brazilian Batman flashes in his mind. The humor is all gone when he feels Thiago smack him across the face.

“I saw what you did. Stop being fucking idiot.”

He wants to protest, but he knows Thiago is right. In any other circumstance, he would never step on someone on purpose. If his mother was there, she  would reduce him to cinders giving him the talking to which would all boil down to the fact that she raised him to know better. But he’s too exhausted to care anymore. The sheer fact that Chelsea is losing makes his mouth dry. He lowers his eyes and takes advantage of the break to drink water. He just wants this match to be over with and pretend the day never happened.

…

David comes back to the present, and a smile spreads on his face. He figures the memory is now one they could both make fun of. He doesn’t know why, but all of a sudden, he feels nervous going up to talk to Edi. He thinks of a dozen ways he can initiate conversation, but just when he thinks he’s ready to go up to him, he recoils. He decides to take the empty seat just right behind him and he places the soles of his feet on the back of Edi’s seat and he chews his lower lip nervously.

It’s just so _weird_. He never has issues going up to talk to anyone. He’s able to bring a smile out of anyone, but with Edi, he feels like’s he’s put up a wall of some sort. He feels cut off from him in a manner he doesn’t from other teammates. Ibra included.

The impulsive side gets the best of him and he kicks Edi’s seat. Surely enough, Edi turns around and sees him and David laughs when their eyes meet. Edi just gives him a small smile and sits back again. David thumps against Edi’s seat with his right leg, and calls out,

“Hey. _You_. Whatcha doing?”

He hears Edi adjusting himself before his head pops back into view. He looks a little annoyed, which makes David a bit nervous. He observes Edi look to the side when he speaks.

“I used to kick my brother through the back seat when I was a kid when my father would drive us around. I was just jealous because my father used to make me sit in the back.”

David lowers his eyes and he’s grinning so wide it feels like his face is about to split in half.

“You know, I got that impression about you. That you were kind of like me in a way.”

Edi frowns and the bottom of his lip juts out in a manner that is almost childlike. David wants to strum his finger over it like his uncle used to do when he’d pout.

“No. I don’t think we’re alike.”

David feels his smile weaken and he looks away.

“Look. I was just about to get ready to sleep.” Edi speaks. “But there will be plenty of down time at the hotel to...”

David nods and he senses Edi put the wall back up between them again.

“Right…and yeah. I guess I’ll talk to you then.” He brings his feet back down and gets back up to sit next to Thiago.

He’s settling in when he takes a peek towards Edi’s direction again and sees him on his phone again, scrolling through pictures. _He just wanted to blow me off._ David finds himself thinking. But it isn’t long until Edi locks his phone and adjusts himself to go to sleep, and David feels shitty for having judged him too quickly. He picks up his neck pillow and dusts it off before slinging it around his neck. He reclines his seat as far as he can.

The last thing he thinks about before he goes to sleep is Edi’s dark, melancholic eyes.

 

 

At twenty-seven years of age, he’s not exactly a rookie anymore. He’s traveled many times before. With Benfica. Chelsea. With the Brazilian National Team for friendlies, FIFA World Cup qualifiers and everything in between. He figures he should be used to the lulls between matches by now. But nothing hits him hard like boredom or _ennui_ , as it’s called in French.

He throws himself on his overly decorated hotel bed after unpacking when he finds himself thinking how he wishes he were in French class. Anything to make the time go faster.

He was immediately enrolled in French classes as soon as he arrived. He met his instructors for French grammar and composition and Conversational French twice a week in the early evening. He was surprised when he saw Edi in his Level 1 Conversational French class. He couldn’t understand how someone who had been living in France for a year could barely make himself speak French. He would try not to laugh when Henriette, the course instructor, called on Edi to participate in an exercise. The guy sounded as if he had work done in his mouth, and his tongue was still numb from residual novocaine.

“Jeh swee desoleh mad-am. Mais…jehhhh…comment se dit?” Edi would gesture desperately with his hands, tapping his forefinger against his temple.

 _Comment se dit?_ French for “How do you say?” became Edi’s crutch.

He could barely get three words out and he’d look up apologetically asking for help to find the words or phrases.

“ _Penser?_ ” David would call out verb choices to help him out. “ _Comprendre?_ ”

 _Someone clearly wasn’t doing his homework._ David thinks to himself.

It became a comical guessing game every time for him when Edi would get stuck. And he wasn’t doing this to put him on the spot. He just couldn’t stand watching him floundering, though to anyone else it might have looked like he was making fun of him. And every time, Edi would just smile the vexation away, not looking at him, eyes fixed on ever-so-patient Henriette as if he could buy himself a nod of approval with his don’t-hate-me-cause-I’m-beautiful smile.

 _Maybe if he hung out with Serge and Blaise who are native French speakers more than Flaco and Pocho, he’d learn faster._ David thinks to himself, and he almost finds himself suggesting this to him when they leave. But Edi darts out of class and gets on his phone right away, usually arguing with someone on the other line.

And while he’s lying in bed, alone in his hotel room wondering how is he going to escape the boredom that he realizes that he wants to find Edi and talk to him. It’s been well over a month, and he had failed to connect with him as he had with the others.

The team had their last meal on the plane, and they wouldn’t eat until early in the morning for breakfast. He swore the stomach acid was corroding his insides and wasn’t sure if he could wait that long to eat again. He wondered if he could sneak into the kitchen and convince the staff to feed him in exchange for an autograph. A picture. Whatever it took. He knew it went against the rules and Laurent would roast him if he got caught eating outside of schedule. Doubly so if it was junk food, but he decides he doesn’t care. He’d run the risk. Plus. He lived for cheap thrills.

Two things to do tonight. Get a snack, and find Edi.

He puts on a light hoodie before he steps out onto the corridor. He recognizes Thiago’s room number and he knocks on the door and runs away as fast as he can to the elevators.

He’s in the lobby and he throws on his hood to cover up his wild mop of curly hair.

 _I can’t believe I’m in fucking China._ He thinks to himself.

They’re staying at the Fairmont, one of the most luxurious hotels in the area, so David figures the staff _have_ to speak some English and could point him to where the kitchen is. A petite woman with wire-rim glasses laughs nervously and tells him to call room service. He explains himself again, stating that he just wants to go to the kitchen. She directs him to go up one flight up where the general dining area was located, and to ask one of the wait staff to be let into the kitchen. She taps on her analogue watch with urgency—what David interprets as a gesture that he must go quickly because they were closing soon.

He figures he won’t ask any of the wait staff on how to get into the kitchen when he sees the doors. He lets himself in, and a grumpy middle-aged man yells at him in Chinese, probably a command to get the hell out. He pulls down the hood and apologizes in English and the cook is in absolute shock.

“David Luiz!” He yells out raising his index finger, pointing at him. “Chelsea!”

He smiles his lazy grin, nodding in agreement.

“Yes, it’s me. David Luiz.” He extends both arms out as if he were trying to copy the rendition of Christ the Redeemer on mount Corcovado.

“Oh David Luiz…you are the love of my life!” The cook begins to sing. “Oh David Luiz, I’ll let you shag my wife! Oh David Luiz…”

“I want curly hair too!” David chimes in with him in his off-key voice.

And he pulls him in for a hug. In a spastic gesture the cook urges him to wait while he gets something. He returns with a pen and notepad, and shoves these items towards him, which David interprets as him asking for his autograph. After signing and letting him take his picture, David taps him on his shoulder.

“Anything to eat?” He makes a gesture of bringing food to his mouth.

The chef makes a loud sound of exclamation, and nods nervously. He returns with a couple of elaborate cookies. More like tart looking desserts in a napkin.

“Xie-Xie.” Is all David can bring himself to say in Mandarin Chinese to thank him.

He walks out and heads to the elevators, smacking the number 10 button and he leans back against the wall, looking at the fancy cookie looking desserts in his hand. The door opens and he finds Thiago walking in as he’s stepping out.

“Enjoying a late night snack I see.” Thiago exclaims as he presses his lips together, not hiding his annoyance in the slightest.

David doesn’t think twice and throws the desserts into the pouch of his hoodie.

“Come on Thiago. Please don’t tell. I’m _starving_.” He whines.

“ _Ici_ _c’est_ _Paris_ , David. I know in Chelsea you could get away with drinking and smoking. Not here. Here, we follow the rules. We are very _disciplined_.”

“Says the fattie who ate a whole box of _brigadeiros_ over the summer after Germany beat us.” David responds.

He sticks his hand inside his pouch to pull out one of the fancy Chinese desserts and puts it in Thiago’s jacket pocket.

“Now we’re both guilty.” He says as he walks away.

He looks back at Thiago before the elevator doors close on him.

“You know you wanted one.” David manages to say, and Thiago rolls his eyes.

He’s walking down the hall when he runs into Serge.

“You’re not going to hang out in the lounge with the guys?” Serge smacks the back of his hand against David’s chest.

David shrugs and follows Serge to the elevators which they take to the 15th floor.

“On the 20th floor, they have a pool, a gym and an indoor track. Tell me this place isn’t fucking awesome.” Serge comments as he walks towards the casino. “Play a round of Black Jack with me.”

His eyes are being pulled in all directions with all the colored lights, the dazzling decorations and the pop music blasting so loud he swears the sound waves are making his brain shake like jell-o in his skull.

They bump into Marco and Pocho.

“Heeeeeyyy— _Copacabana_.” Marco greets him with a clasp of the hand. “We just came to check it out and now we’re going to play poker in my room. You should come.”

“Yah, maybe I’ll stop by and wipe clean both your bank accounts.” David grins, “By the way, have you seen Edi?”

“This is the last place you’ll find Edi. He _hates_ shit like this. The kid’s been like that for as long as I can remember.” Pocho grins.

“Really?” Marco turns to asks. “I mean…Edi came to my birthday party in last year. In that upscale lounge in the 7th _arrondissement_. He was having a good time.”

“He said that because he didn’t want to be rude to you. He told me later he wanted to throw himself out the window.” Pocho wrinkles his nose while responding to Marco. “I dragged him to your party so he could get his mind off his divorce.”

He turns to look at David and Serge.

“Yeah, Edi’s always been like that…even from when we played in Napoli together.” Pocho gestures. “How much do you want to bet he’s in his room doing sit ups?”

They all break into a laugh.

“You think I’m joking. Well I’m not. Go see for yourself David.” Pocho extends one arm forward, his fingertips barely grazing over David’s nipple line. “His room is 10-E288. The room next to Ibra’s.”

“Thanks bro.” David smacks Pocho’s shoulder before he turns to walk away.

“Text me to confirm I’m right. Serge over here is a bit agnostic and needs evidence.” David barely hears him call out.

He turns to give them all a wink and a pistol firing gesture and trudges to the elevators.

David hears Marco breaking into a giggle. “That what he just did—that’s _so_ Edi.”

As he’s leaving his mind wanders. _He got divorced. That explains why he looks so sad sometimes._

He checks his pouch for his fancy cookie dessert while stepping out of the elevator. As he begins looking for Edi’s room, he realizes it’s in the opposite side to where he’s staying.

David raps his knuckles on the door, and he hears music playing.

 

 _Tengo un gran conocimiento_ [I’ve acquired great knowledge]

 _Yo más que eso tengo un doctorado_ [More than that, I’ve got a doctorate.]

 _Tengo el corazón graduado en sentimiento_ [I have a heart that graduated in sentiments]

 _Con la nota que jamás nadie ha alcanzado_ [With the highest distinction that no one has ever achieved]

 

Edi seems surprised to see him when he opens the door, the bolt still on.

“What do you need?” He asks.

David smiles his upside-down smile and shrugs.

“Nothing, I…I can’t pay you a _visit?_ ”

Edi closes the door on him and David hears him undo the bolt before he reopens again, gesturing to him to step in.

His eyes scan Edi’s room. It’s identical to his, except for the color schemes and a few decorations. He’s got family photos on his desk, and he’s blasting music from his MacBook Air. He looks down and sees a yoga mat beside his bed, some weights and resistance bands. A smile escapes him when he thinks of what Pocho had just told him earlier.

“You’re working out? I don’t want to interrupt your routine.”

“No, it’s cool. I was getting ready to put these away.”

“Dude, we’re training tomorrow. You should be out having fun.”

Edi’s lips curl downwards in an exaggerated frown and he extends both hands out.

“It’s almost time for our curfew anyway. And besides, I needed to do these exercises my physical therapist told me to do. I didn’t get a chance to while we were flying.” He lowers his eyes and swipes his tongue over his lips as if hesitating on what to say. “You see…I’ve got two recurring injuries, and I do these every day to strengthen the muscles around my joints. It helps with the pain.”

David nods before he adds,

“I was gonna to say. You continue working out on your time off you’ll disappear, _irm_ _ão_. You and Flaco are the skinniest blokes on this squad.” He pulls out his Chinese cookie dessert and Edi’s eyes widen.

“Where did you get that?”

“This?” David raises the pastry. “A cook gave it to me. Want a bite?” He breaks it open and sees it’s filled with a cream, making his mouth water.

“I really shouldn’t. Normally I’d say no…but I’m starving.” Edi exhales, not taking his eye off the pastry, accepting David’s offer.

They eat like famished dogs in silence, licking their fingers and making sure to rescue every last crumb that broke off. The only sounds that fill the space are licking and chewing sounds from the two of them and Edi’s music.

 

 _Vivo enamorado y loco_ [I live being madly in love]

 _Yo sin ti vivo fracasado y loco_ [Without you I live as a failure and a madman]

 _Si tu no estás aquí_ [If you’re not here]

 _Aquí a mi lado_ [Here with me]

 _De nada vale ya_ [It’s not worth anything]

 _Lo que se y mi doctorado_ [All I know and my doctorate]

 

“I heard this _reggaetón_ back in Uruguay, and I used to play this song all the time when I would drive to practice in Napoli.” Edi comments as he walks over to his laptop to lower the volume. “So what brings you here? To make fun of how bad my French is?”

David gives him a crooked smile.

“ _Bien sûr_ , Edi. Of course that’s what I came here for.” He says while he gives him a playful nudge. “ _N_ _ão, irm_ _ão_ …I just want to talk. I mean. I see you almost every day and we never speak.”

“You know, it annoys the hell out of me when you jump in like that during class. I can’t hear myself think. And I _get_ it, David. You’re really smart and you’re picking up French fast. _F_ _élicitations_.”

David extends his hand in a quasi-apologetic gesture.

“No. No, I don’t do it for that reason. I just want to help a brother out. And for me…French is easier because it’s more like Portuguese.”

The air is a bit tense between them, and David wonders whether Edi will just end up being one of those teammates he just won’t be as close to. And he figures he can live with that. He’s not going to kill himself to get the guy to like him.

“You know,” David says after a long pause, “I think you’d learn much faster if you forced yourself to speak it more. I only see you with Pocho, Javier and Toto. Maybe you should hang out more with Blaise and Serge. They’re native—”

“That’s not the problem, David. I understand French very well. It’s just…It’s such an _unforgiving_ language. It’s not like Spanish where you say things exactly how you write them, and write it exactly how it sounds.”

“Look. Wishing French were more like Spanish isn’t gonna change a thing. It’s _you_ that needs to adapt. Not the language adapting to his majesty, prince Edi Cavani the _Ninth_.” David pokes his chest, which makes Edi glower.

There is an awkward silence between the two before Edi begins clapping facetiously.

“Bravo, David. _Encore_. _Encore_.” He says flatly. “Are you done judging me?”

“Look. I didn’t mean it like that. I just—”

The air feels heavy and David exhales.

“Maybe I should leave.”

Edi reaches out to him then.

“David! David…I’m _sorry_ David. It’s not you. I promise, it’s not you.” He raises his eyes to communicate his sincerity. “I just got off the phone with my old man. And I love the guy. I do. But every time I get off the phone with him, he takes so much out of me.”

David feels Edi loosen his grip on his arm. He’s looking down at the carpeted floor listlessly for a moment to find his words.

“All he ever does is criticize me. Nothing I’ve done is good enough for him.” He grins and turns to look up at him again. “And the part you said about me adapting? It’s true. You’re absolutely right my friend.”

David takes a seat at the edge of his bed while Edi gently folds his MacBook shut.

“Curfew starts in fifteen minutes.” Edi whispers.

“You know what we should do?” David suggests while he scratches an itch on his shoulder.

Edi turns to look at him, eyebrows shooting up.

“We should knock on people’s doors and run away before they catch us.”

“You can’t be _serious_. What are you? Twelve?” He chortles before he adds. “Actually that sounds like something my friend Luis, you know Luis Suárez? Who plays for Barça? He would do something like that.”

“The one that bites people? Are you comparing me to that nutcase?”

“Hey!” Edi’s entire face darkens, and his cheekbones protrude as he clenches his jaw. “If you say a single word insulting him, or making fun of him, I’ll kill you. You don’t know him like I do.”

“Alright then. It’s just that it was only a couple of months ago, when you guys played Italy. Everyone saw it, and kept talking about it.”

“Just like everyone saw and kept talking about the seven goals Germany scored against Brazil.” Edi mutters between clenched teeth.

David pushes Edi off the bed, onto the floor.

“Now we’re even. Don’t you ever bring that up again.” He offers him a hand to pick him up, which Edi accepts.

“Now with that settled, do you want to play?” David looks at him, eyes wide with mischief.

Edi smiles wide, and his eyes disappear. He turns his head to the side to giggle.

“David…you can’t be _serious_.”

“Is that your key card?” David gestures with his head to the card peeking out of a small manila envelope on his desk. “He swats one hand over it and tucks it into the pouch of his hoodie. “If you want it back, you have to knock on Ibra’s door and run out of sight before he catches you.”

“Give it back.” Edi whines. He reaches for David’s hoodie. “Come on David—give it back! What if I don’t want to play your stupid game?

“I’m no longer asking if you want to play. You’re playing. Come on. You need to laugh and do stupid shit every now and then.”

They step out and Edi folds his arms across his chest. David swears he can read “ _I hate you so much right now_.” in his teammate’s dark eyes.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Edi mutters and he raps hard on Zlatan’s door and takes off with David like wild gazelles.

They swerve to the right and around the other passage trying hard not to laugh. The entire floor is deathly silent even the slightest creaks are magnified. Edi bites down hard on his lower lip and avoids looking at David to keep himself from laughing when they both hear Zlatan open the door then slam it shut when he realizes he’s fallen for the most basic prank in the book.


	3. No lo se.

As David walks off the training grounds of _Camp des Lodges_ , he thinks about the odd satisfaction from the feel of his trainers prodding into the damp soil; a sharp contrast to the sound they made when stepping onto a hard floor. The metal spikes clacking against the linoleum tiles of the training ground's changing area sound like familiar clackity-clack of horse’s mild trot. He steps aside as Marco and Thiago Motta pass by him, peeling off their sweat-soaked training shirts.

Marco, red-faced and with a look of mild exhaustion from their workout, slaps David’s arm playfully.

“ _Copacabana!_ You fucking beast—I barely survived the drills today.”

“I think I need a new pair of legs.” Thiago mutters, squinting his eyes in mild irritation.

David grins and laughs half-heartedly to commiserate, and as he wipes his face with his hands, he realizes the sunscreen he applied on his face nearly washed out from sweating.

It seems darker as he steps further indoors, a temporary nuisance he’ll deal with until his eyes adjust.

Everything bothers him today. And he doesn’t know why.

The air feels cool against his scorched skin, but it takes a few minutes before he finds relief from the mid-day heat. But that’s not what’s really irritating him. He takes a seat by his changing area, and leans back while he exhales his exasperation. A profound dissatisfaction seemed to have taken residency in his lungs, and he’s just about done trying to figure out what it is and what will it take to chase it all out. He scans the room, ripe with the scent of funk and soap, as each of his teammates scurry to freshen up. Thiago Silva is dressed and their eyes meet briefly before David redirects his attention to his phone. Without taking his eyes off, he slides off his boots, and peels off his socks. He ignores the texts from his mother and sister. For a moment, he’s annoyed they were both at it again; scheming to convince him to get married to Sara. They had just got back together again, after a long break, and he wanted to take things slow. Just yesterday evening, they had a fight after he dropped her off. He insisted that he did not want to give up his church and become a member of _her_ church. The Hillsong church. If he would have just apologized and agreed to at least accompany her to services every now and then, the whole argument could have been avoided. He knows deep down that the reason wasn’t his religious affiliation. Before they broke up the first time, he had cheated on her to an extent that she wasn’t even aware of. But he got caught lying. Once. And that was all that it took for their relationship to fray. She no longer trusted him the way she used to. The whole situation with Sara is something he doesn’t want to think of anymore.

David taps on Edinson’s name to clear the notification of the last text he sent him last night. Thiago Silva’s birthday was coming up, and they were planning on going out dancing at a nearby venue with the squad, and David wanted to know if Edinson would come, to which he replied: _No se. Quiz_ _ás_. [Don’t know. Maybe.]

He scrolls through the last few texts between him and Edinson. Barely any history.

After they won _Le Troph_ _ée des Champions_ in Beijing—their first cup of the season—things between him and Edinson have improved. But he still remained a bit distant. There was only one difference this time; David no longer took it so personally. Edinson was this way with everyone, except Pocho and Javier. He’d smile more around those two and got along with less resistance. What on earth did they talk about for so long in the café after training was beyond him. But even so, there were days where he’d seek to put in the time and leave. It was as if something was bothering him, but he just couldn’t bring himself to say much.

David notices Edinson walking to the showers, and extends his leg outward as if to trip him. It _works_. It catches his attention. Edinson looks at him with a sardonic, _what-the-fuck-are-you-doing_ expression, and David purses his lips, keeping a flat expression before breaking into laughter.

“ _Edinho_ —como estas ’manito?” It comes out in a playful, sing-song drawl, mocking Edinson’s _rioplatense_ accent.

“The _fuck_ is wrong with you today?” Edinson responds, “do you ever act your age?”

“Are you coming to Thiago’s party?” David interjects hoping he can make Edinson come around.

“I don’t know—” Edinson barely finishes before David cuts him off.

“To answer your earlier question, what you saw at practice today was just a warm-up Edi. I’m way more fun outside of practice.” David responds before his face breaks into a smile. “Come _on_ —man. You need to be there. It’ll be _fuunnnn_.”

Edinson looks at David without really looking at him. It’s as if he just chose a spot on his face to fixate on while working out a quiet argument in his head. The corner of Edinson’s lips curls upwards into an unsure smile before he opens his mouth to speak.

“I don’t know yet. I’m waiting for a response this week before I can confirm. I’ll let you know.”

Just as Edinson begins to walk away, David drops his phone and strips off his shirt.

“Where are you going?” Edinson asks.

David lifts his arm overhead and motions to smell his armpit before he charges at Edinson and shoves his armpit into his face. David breaks into laughter watching Edinson scrunch his face.

“I smell, bro. I’m off to shower like everyone else.” David replies nonchalantly and strips down to his underwear, and breaks into a samba shuffle.

“ _Ziriguidum. Ziriguidum_.” David sings, just slightly out of tune. He turns around and blocks the entrance to the showers, not letting Edinson advance.

“Come on—David. Not now—”

“ _Baila comigo Edinho_. [Dance with me. _Edinho_ is the Brazilian Portuguese diminutive of Edi; it would translate to "baby Edi" or "little Edi".] _Ziriguidum_. _Ziriguidum_.”

David looks around him, relishing in the attention he has from some of his teammates as Edinson becomes visibly annoyed.

Pocho, who had been watching from a distance decides to chime in.

“ _Vamos Edi. Muéstrale a este boludo como es que se baila_.” [Come on, Edi. Show this idiot how to dance properly.]

David gestures his head to Pocho, genuinely taken by surprise. “Edi here likes to dance?”

“Homeboy here knew all the new dance moves. Him, me, Marek and Camillo—we’d choreograph on the pitch back in the day. Right Edi?” Pocho slaps Edinson from behind.

They both watch as Edinson brings his hand to his face, scratching the side of his face nervously.

“Camillo’s nickname for Edi was _‘Amando’._ _¿_ _Te acuerdas, Edi?_ [Remember Edi?]” Pocho’s grin spreads wide, it’s practically splitting his face. “Camillo would announce to the squad when Edi would arrive: “Aquí viene Armando— _Armando_ la fiesta! [Here comes Armando—Creating the feast! Note: The verb "to assemble” is armando, which is spelled and pronounced exactly like the name Armando. It’s word play.]”

“We can catch up on Napoli antics later. I’m gonna go shower-” 

Edinson tries to sidestep, but David quickly grips his waist, pulling him close. It’s so abrupt that Edinson’s misguided attempt to turn his face away causes their faces to meet; their front teeth collide as their mouths crash briefly.

Edinson looks back at David in a flicker, and walks out of his way.

David brings his hand over his mouth and uses the tip of his tongue to probe his front teeth in case he chipped something. He bites down on his lower lip and exhales sharply from his nose.

No harm done.

Pocho had already walked away, no one else was watching anymore. David kicks his shorts nearby his station before he walks to the showers.

His mind wanders back to that shard of a second where Edinson flashed him a look after their faces collided by accident. Was it anger? Surprise? Shame? He couldn’t tell for sure.

He thinks to himself that whatever was bothering him earlier is gone. His meddling family. Sara. Adapting to the new squad. He's past that.  _This_ is bothering him now. He’s convinced now that Edinson doesn’t like him.

And he’s not used to not being liked.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed, please leave kudos, or comment below.


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